Joros had never liked leaders who were too cowardly to actually lead. Leaders who hid behind the guise of fairness, where each delicate opinion mattered and transparency was law and a leader could hide behind any decision by claiming it had been the will of the people.
Vatri was one of those leaders.
She made Joros petition her, publicly, before all the fools who thought she and Scal were anything special. Well—there was no denying that Scal’s sword was unusual, and if even a quarter of the tales he’d heard about the Nightbreaker were actually true of Scal, then there was something there. But the Northman was attached to Vatri’s teat and wouldn’t so much as blink without her leave, so if Joros hoped to take advantage of the Northman-shaped gift that had fallen into his lap, he needed to convince Vatri.
A conniving bitch who hated him at least as much as he hated her.
He’d thought briefly that Aro, who could occasionally demonstrate miraculous social acuity, might be a help in that—until the merra’s spitting and screeching reminded him that Aro’s unexpected revelation as a budding mage was what had made Vatri leave their merry little band in the first place. No help from that quarter.
No, it was left to Joros alone—as usual—to save them all.
And so he stood with Aro and Harin and the others at his back, facing Vatri with Scal to one side and some lord’s son named Edro to her other, and all the other followers of the Nightbreaker ranged around them, intrigued.
Joros began with a sweeping bow. “O kind and blessed merra,” he began in a nasally, bootlicking voice, and he saw Vatri gnash her teeth. If she thought to make a mockery of him, the least he could do was return the favor. “I stand before you, humbled, seeking—”
“You will speak plainly,” she interrupted, “or you will leave.”
“As you wish.” Joros bowed again, simply out of spite, though this bow wasn’t as extravagant as the first. “We’ve been traveling in search of help—help in defeating the Fallen, and rebinding the Twins, and returning the sun to its proper place. From all we’ve heard, the aims of the Nightbreaker and his people are the same. There is a logical alliance to be made.”
Vatri snorted. “Ignoring, for the moment, the fact that nothing in our shared history would make me want to ally with you again—what could you possibly have to contribute to an alliance? What could you provide that equals the power of the Nightbreaker?”
Joros raised a closed fist, and extended one finger. “I have knowledge of the inner workings of the Fallen. I know how they think, and I can anticipate how they will act and react.” He raised a second finger. “I have seven—excuse me, eight, now—mages loyal to me. The Fallen have many more, but to try to go against them without mages of your own would be sheerest madness.” A third finger, and Joros allowed himself to smile. “And I know a means of finding the Twins.”
It had been quiet as he spoke, but after those words even the sounds of fidgeting and breathing died. They all waited, and Joros was not ashamed of preening under their undivided attention.
“Explain,” Vatri said tersely.
“The sharing of sensitive information is typically reserved for allies . . .”
Vatri growled—actually growled, like a dog, and it was almost enough to make Joros laugh. “If you aren’t willing to share even the most basic—”
“Wait.” The man named Edro put a hand on her arm, and she fell silent. “I know there’s . . . a history here. But I would like to hear what he has to say.”
At least one of the three had something like a brain between his ears.
Vatri scowled so fiercely he thought it might strip bark from the surrounding trees, but at length she nodded and ground out, “Continue. Please.”
“Perhaps,” Joros said delicately, “a conversation of this nature would be better had in private.” He flickered his eyes pointedly to the crowd that surrounded them. “I’m sure you trust all your people, but I don’t have that luxury.”
“He’s not wrong,” Edro murmured, though it was loud enough that Joros—and, likely, no few others—heard it. Joros liked the man more and more.
Vatri, though, didn’t particularly seem to like him in that moment. Even so, she could see that he was right. She raised her voice and called out, “Everyone, back to your business. I believe dinner should have been started already, but I don’t smell anything cooking. And doubtless there are some few of you who can spend your time searching in the trees for our friends in black.”
They scattered obediently, save for a handful of what Joros guessed to be self-proclaimed bodyguards. Their number included the handsome woman with the longbow as tall as she was, who kept eyeing Joros. True, it was usually with distrust or uncertainty, but she was looking.
Vatri led them toward the largest tent their meager camp had to offer, which still looked hardly big enough to hold a handful of people. Vatri and Edro and Scal went in, leaving their bodyguards outside, and so Joros left most of his group as well—he brought with him Aro, and included Harin so that they wouldn’t be outnumbered.
The tent was as small inside as he’d feared, and they had to sit knee to knee in a jagged circle, a ring of frowns—and Aro, who was slowly coming up from his bout of madness and smiling in pleasant confusion at the world.
“So,” Vatri said. She and Joros had wound up seated next to each other, by some clever machination of . . . it must have been Edro, because Scal wouldn’t care. It meant Joros didn’t have to look at Vatri—instead he was across from Edro, the clever man. And Vatri got to stare at Harin, for whom she had no reason yet to harbor any ill will—though Joros expected that wouldn’t take long. The merra could find fault with a rock, and wouldn’t shy from pointing it out. Though she spoke to Joros, she did it without looking at him, and that suited him just fine. “We have privacy now. Our people are trustworthy, but . . . it is true that there is no harm in keeping delicate information to the fewest ears. So please, speak openly.”
Over the years, Joros had needed to develop a number of techniques to express his derision inwardly while keeping any sign of it from showing outwardly. His favorite was a sort of mental snort. “Aro and I are one piece of a greater mission,” he told Edro. “The mission, of course, being the defeat of the Twins. To that end, we have been seeking information on the Fallen—their whereabouts, their plans, their doings—while simultaneously collecting their mages and helping them recover from what the Fallen have done to them. In every case, the mages have proved so grateful that they’ve offered their help willingly.”
From the corner of his eye, he saw Harin frowning. Rora had often had the same internal struggle written on her face, as she tried to parse if she’d understood his words right, and if the blatant lie was something she should call out. Rora, at least, had generally been smart enough to wait to question him until they were out of earshot. He had no such assurances with Harin.
He went on: “We’ve developed something of a stronghold, a safe place from which we can operate, but there are still too few of us. In order to combat the Fallen—in order to represent a true danger to the Twins—we must be stronger. And so Aro and I have come in search of allies, and when we heard of the Nightbreaker . . .” Joros shrugged. “It seemed the perfect solution. Almost as if the Parents themselves had crafted it.”
“You do not get to speak of them,” Vatri spat. Joros felt an immense gratification to see horror flicker across Edro’s face at her venom. Let her people see what a snake she was.
“Forgive me,” Joros said with no contrition. “But you must admit it’s an elegant solution. Two groups seeking the same thing—”
“There are likely dozens, hundreds such groups across Fiatera. All strong-hearted people of good conscience would seek to destroy the Twins and return the sun.”
“That may be true. But I would argue that few, if any, of these other groups have the actual power to accomplish those tasks. Mine does. It seems yours does as well. But neither of our groups can succeed alone. There is power in numbers, power in alliances.”
From his own icy silence, Scal rumbled, “There is danger in being alone.” He frowned as he said the words, face creasing as deeply as Vatri’s fire-scars. He had the look of a man reciting something from a source he could no longer remember.
“Just so,” Joros agreed.
Edro leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “I can see the sense in an alliance.” Before Vatri could get out too much spluttering, he raised a hand. “It’s not a decision any of us can make on our own, and I certainly don’t mean to, but the idea has merit. I would hear more.” He pierced Vatri with a stern gaze. “In a fight for the future of our world itself, there is no place for old grudges. You can hate him beneath the light of the sun, and not until then.”
Oh, but that was nicely handled. Joros turned his head to look at Vatri, intensely curious how she’d react. And her reaction surprised him even more—though there was a tightness in her jaw, she stared down at her folded hands and, at length, gave a single nod of agreement.
Edro nodded in return, and fixed Joros with his attention once more. “Now then. You say you have a means of finding the Twins. I understand you not wishing to disclose it yet. I won’t press you for information on it. So instead: let us assume we are able to find the Twins. What then?”
Another skill Joros had developed was remaining calm in the face of rising panic. His plan was still little more than a few scattered steps in a long stairwell, pieces that might eventually connect, or might spiral off in different directions. There was no plan.
But there were facts, and there was always a safety in stating facts. “Since they rose, the Twins have only been growing in power. They may be too strong even now for us to truly fight. So they must be made weak before we have a hope of defeating them.” His mind was racing ahead, laying down boards, stringing up ropes, rapidly constructing the skeleton of a staircase even as he stumbled up the shaky steps. “You have the power of the Parents—doubly so, with a sword made of their fire and one of their godmarked. If there’s anything that can weaken them, it’s the Parents’ power.”
Edro nodded along, his eyes gleaming. “And when they’re weak?”
“I should think,” Joros said slowly as the last step crystallized above him, shining, “that the power of eight mages and the power of the Parents combined should be enough to bind the Twins once more. Bind them in their mortal bodies, and let them waste away into husks. And if we destroy their true bodies, the ones buried beneath the earth, then they will have no hope of anything else.”
Grinning, Edro pounded a fist against his knee. “There’s a plan a man can sink his teeth into!”
Vatri, as usual, did her best to kill any joy before it had the chance to grow. “They were bound once, and freed. If they’re bound again, who’s to say they can’t be freed again? After all, it was the power of the Parents that bound them in the first place, and that proved not enough.”
Of course there are holes in the plan, viper. Joros spread his hands wide. “I have never claimed my way is the only way.” He hadn’t—but he’d often claimed his was the best way, because the plans of fools were not to be trusted. “You merely asked what I and my group had planned, and I told you. You’ve spent all these months searching for information on where the Twins are—if you’ve also developed some idea of what you’ll do when you find them, please, I would love to hear it.” He would mock it to oblivion, and then steal its best parts to bastardize into his own newly formed plan.
He watched Vatri and Edro and Scal exchange glances, and knew they had nothing.
“What is it,” Vatri asked, “exactly, that you would want from us in this . . . alliance?” She said the word like it was a maggot in her mouth.
“You told me once that when you call on the Parents, they answer. I would have you scream yourself raw calling for them, until they answer with all the power they have. I would have our Northman friend here wielding the Parents’ power to strike fear and death at the Fallen, and at the Twins themselves. I would use your people as a spear cast at the Twins, cleaving a hole through the Fallen so that we may reach the Twins, and destroy them.”
Vatri nodded. “And what would we get in turn?”
“The location of the Twins. Mages, to supplement the power of the Parents. My own fighting force to supplement yours. My years of knowledge of how the Fallen operate, and which of their weaknesses we can best exploit. And you get the only plan, so far, that has a hope of defeating them.”
Vatri stared beyond Joros, at Aro. “The last plan of yours I knew,” she said, “involved using your chosen twins as hosts.”
Joros felt his lip curl. “If you wish to point out the clear failure—”
“No. Even the best plans can crumble. I understand that. But I want to know: you spoke of mortal vessels, and fighting the Twins on equal footing. I had a suspicion, then.” She was still staring at Aro, and the boy met her piercing gaze with a wrinkled brow. “If things had gone your way. If Rora and Aro had played host to the Twins. Was it your plan to kill them?”
Joros shifted his jaw until it popped. She’d turned her attention to him, now, and her eyes said she knew full well what the answer was. She merely wanted to see if he’d admit it, and if he didn’t, she’d have her argument against him and the shaky alliance he offered: How could they trust a man who could not tell an inconsequential truth about something done and gone? He could practically hear her shrill voice making the argument. And much as it pained Joros to admit it, he very badly needed her and her people—he had no willing fighting force, and mages that would only heed him because of the poison that had once run through their veins.
So he held Vatri’s gaze, and he said, “I had always hoped it wouldn’t come to that. But if it had, if the choice had been between the world and their lives . . . then yes. I would have done it.”
She nodded, and had the grace not to look surprised at being given the truth.
Edro seemed to sense that Vatri had the answers she’d wanted. He clapped his hands together and said, “You’ve given us plenty to talk about. Will you now give us the time to discuss your offer?”
“Of course,” Joros said. It wasn’t really a request—to refuse them the chance to discuss him and his words would be as good as demanding they refuse his alliance—but Edro had clearly had some experience in etiquette or minor politics.
“Deslan will see that you’re made comfortable. We’ll speak again when we have an answer.”
Joros stood, Harin a heartbeat behind him, and together they pulled the still-frowning Aro to his feet. Joros was pushing the boy toward the tent’s exit when a voice rumbled, “What is wrong with him?”
Joros twisted around to face the Northman. “He’s sick,” he said easily.
“He’s a mage,” Vatri corrected, scowling. “He wasn’t in such poor shape the last time I saw him. He’s clearly been given the same drug as the other mages we’ve seen.” Her eyes, fixed on Joros, were full of all the judgment he’d expect from a priestess. At Joros’s side, Harin went stiff.
“It is true?” Scal asked.
Joros popped his jaw again and chose his words carefully. “An unfortunate mistake. I’ve been working with him, to help his recovery.”
Scal said nothing more, and Joros ushered his people out of the tent. He wanted to think the suspicion in Harin’s eyes was only imagined, but of all the pack with him, she had enough of a brain that she might begin to see the cracks in the story he’d told. He’d have to make sure to talk with Harin, smooth over the lies.
The group of Vatri’s people that they’d left outside had formed a loose ring around the tent, a respectful distance away but close enough to respond if called for. Joros’s people were peppered among them, and all talking animatedly. It was the first time they’d looked anything like happy since leaving the estate. They’d found other peasants who were passionate about their cause—likely down on their luck, simple folk who carried weapons they knew how to use to great effect. The pack were practically at home.
“Deslan?” Joros called, and it was the handsome woman with the longbow who turned at the name. She strolled over to him, bow slung around her shoulder. She looked less mistrustful than she had before, which was a mark in the right column. “They’ll likely be talking awhile in there. Edro said you’d be able to see to our comfort as we wait.”
She snorted. “’Course he did. I’m no steward . . .” She shook herself, and forced a smile at Joros. Even forced, it was a pleasant smile. “Right. I can find you food and a fire, at least. You lot,” she said to the rest of her people, “stay here. The rest of you, come on with me.”
As she led them through the camp, Joros tossed idle questions at her about the methods of the Nightbreaker’s people, trying to separate the truth from all the legends he’d heard along the way. She answered everything willingly enough, and when she accidentally called Edro “little lordling,” she blushed very charmingly. Joros replied with some offhand, scathing remark that made her laugh, and when she caught him eyeing her significantly, she only smiled.
She commandeered a campfire for them, informing its two occupants they’d now be sharing space, and they shuffled around willingly enough. Food would be brought around soon, Deslan promised, and by then the three likely would have come to some agreement. “I’ll come back and fetch you when they’re ready to talk again,” she said.
Joros reached out and gripped her upper arm, and both her eyebrows shot up. “Why don’t you stay,” he said with his most charming smile. “Surely you need to eat as well, and I’m sure any meal would be made more palatable by your presence.”
She laughed, and her eyes gleamed, and she opened her mouth to agree—
“Joros?” a wispy voice said, tugging at his sleeve. “Can . . . can we talk?”
Joros ground his teeth in frustration while not letting his smile slip or his attention waver from Deslan. Still, the moment had shattered. She smiled again, ruefully this time, and said, “We’ve both got business. The food’s good enough—plenty palatable on its own. I’ll be back when they’re ready to talk with you.” She gently shook off his hand, and disappeared back into the camp.
Joros rounded on Aro and nearly thumped the boy. “What do you want?”
“I . . .” He had the grace to cower. “Can we talk? Alone? There’s . . .” His hands flailed, as if he could pluck the right words out of the sky.
With a growl and a terse nod, Joros turned to the two who’d originally claimed the campfire. “Will we get shot if we go into the trees?”
“Sentries are mostly looking out,” one said, “so’s long as you don’t go too far, there’s nothing to fear.”
Joros could have thanked the man, but he was frustrated and ungrateful and looking forward now to beating his mage in private. He stomped into the trees, Aro trailing in his wake. Every tree looked much like the others, and so he chose one at random to stop beside, once there was a screen of trees between them and the fire. “What?” he demanded.
Shoulders hunched, Aro stared at his feet, but Joros could hear his words clearly enough: “You said you would’ve killed us.”
Joros stood by that decision even more in this moment—hells, he almost wished it had come to that. “To spare the world this mess, yes, I would have killed you, your sister, and scores more. What of it?”
“You keep us around. Me and Rora. You’re always so careful about it. You . . . you still think there’s a chance you’ll have to use us like that, don’t you?”
Maybe his sister wasn’t the only one who’d gotten a touch of cleverness, but as Joros wasn’t feeling particularly charitable, any cleverness Aro had was rather like a candleflame that burned incandescently for one breath before dying. “The future could bring any manner of things. I try to be prepared for most of them.”
“There’s something else you said, a while ago. I remember it.” Aro looked up, and there was still madness hovering in the boy’s eyes, but there was clarity, too. “You said, ‘Destroy one, and you destroy them both.’ You said that, didn’t you?”
Joros frowned, pushing his frustration down a touch. This was not at all the direction he had expected this conversation to go. “I did say that.”
“Then . . . if it comes to it . . . I’ve got a favor to ask you . . .”
And he asked, and Joros—partly because of his frustration and partly because he simply could—agreed. When they returned to the camp, Joros saw horror and grief and green sickness written across the boy’s face, but he didn’t say, No, wait, I take it back, don’t. He kept his lips together, even when some of the camp folk delivered around bowls of half-palatable food. Aro simply stared into the fire.
When the meal was done, Joros turned his back to the fire, staring through the camp the way they’d come. He didn’t fidget, but he was very close to standing up and pacing when he finally heard someone approaching through the darkness. He plastered a smile on his face as he stood up, but it wasn’t Deslan who stepped into the ring of their campfire’s light. It was the Northman, and Joros was even gladder that he’d stood.
“You’ve decided?” he asked Scal. His stomach gave a twist—likely the food not sitting well; he wasn’t nervous, he didn’t get nervous. There was only one possible answer they could give. They were fools if they didn’t, and he had no interest in working with fools.
“Yes,” Scal said, and he took long agonizing moments to look from Joros to the eager faces of all his people, and to Aro, who hadn’t moved, who still nursed his bowl of gruel and stared into the fire. Finally he turned back to Joros. “We will help you,” he said, and his eyes slipped back to Aro halfway through the sentence.
Joros grinned, and shouted that there must be alcohol somewhere in this camp, and altogether they managed to turn up a few bottles of cheap wine and a barrel of mead that didn’t taste like pure poison. They made do. The camp celebrated the new alliance long into the night, and somewhere in the darkness Joros found Deslan for a celebration of a more private sort. His plan—any plan—would likely see her and all the others dead before it was done, but she wasn’t dead yet. And there were things worth celebrating.